Skeleton Key
by stealingETERNITY
Summary: Everything was fine, she reassured herself. She would be attending Hogwarts and she was back in her beloved England after eleven years of living in France. Everything was fine, apart from the fact that she should have been dead.
1. Chapter 1

The green countryside of England was a welcome sight, even in the middle of a storm. Outside the carriage, rain pounded the earth, soaking the ground and turning the dirt lanes into thick mud that sucked at the horses' hooves. Hesper faced the window, her nose pressed up against the glass. It was wonderful to be back.

The horses came to an unexpected stop, and the curtain rod hanging above her head crashed down, giving a sharp _crack_ as it hit her skull. Wincing, she drew away, rubbing her head and blinking in an attempt to keep the tears at bay.

"Mother?" Her mother was sleeping in the seat next to her, her elegant feathered hat shading her eyes. Hesper turned to her father, who was seated across from her. But he was sleeping as well, his deserted pipe resting by his trouser covered leg, a thin wisp of smoke drifting towards the ceiling. Sniffing, she picked the fallen curtain rod up from the floor and replaced it above the window, the cloth blocking the sight of the furious storm outside. Shadows danced on the walls as the single lantern swung from its hook, its flame wavering. A roll of thunder sounded and she flinched, taken by surprise. Again, she pressed her face to the fogged window, her forehead resting against the chilled glass. _Why had they stopped? _

Her knuckles rapped on the ceiling, calling for the driver. For a moment she waited, listening for the sound of him climbing down from the roof. There was nothing, however— nothing save the rain striking the window and the occasional soft snort from the horses. Curious, she checked her shoes and tugged her coat closer to her body before opening the door with care. The heavy scent of damp earth filled her senses as the door gave a slight squeak in the rain, and she glanced back, making sure her parents were still asleep. Stepping down, her boots sank into the ground, and she made her way to the horses, slowed by the thick mud. All four had their ears pinned back, and as she drew next to their heads they squealed, the sound shattering the air.

"Hush, Argo," she soothed, smoothing her hands down each horse's flank. "Admiral… Baron… Nara… easy loves. It's alright, it's just me. Just Hesper." She moved around them, doing her best to avoid their powerful legs and squinting her eyes against the rain. _"Tristan?"_ She called out the driver's name, unable to see whether he was still seated on top of the coach. Tense and apprehensive, she gripped the upper rail of the carriage and hoisted herself up, hands slipping on the wet iron. Head drawing even with the roof, she strained to heave her body over the top. A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the sky and through the downpour she saw— body stretched out like he was sleeping— Tristan, his black felt hat beside his head.

"_Tristan!"_ she hissed, anxiety making her voice shake. Hesitant, she reached out with a trembling hand, her gloved fingers closing around his wrist, feeling for a pulse, needing to sense the throb of his circulating blood beneath her touch. There was nothing. She shook his shoulder, shivering in the cold, half mad with terror. "Not dead, not dead, not dead," she muttered to the dark. He couldn't be dead. There was no way, no _possible_ way. His face was serene, peaceful, unmarred. The sign of… the sign of—

_The sign of the killing curse; of Avada Kedavra. _

A soft moan slipped from her mouth, and her head shook, unable to accept the fact. It was impossible. There had been no wizard present, no witch, no _magic_. No magic apart from herself. _But what of apparition?_ she reminded herself. Apparation, so that someone bearing a wand could disappear. Yet there had been no flash, no flash of green light that accompanied the Avada Kedavra curse, had there? The curtain had fallen on her head, the flash could have occurred, and she would have missed it. Perhaps… yes, perhaps that was it.

Her addled mind was at war with itself, all of her thoughts confused, unable to process anything. Why magic? Heart attacks caused sudden deaths, and left no mark behind. But Tristan was not old, he was healthy, _had_ been healthy. There was no reason for him to die a normal death. No, his death could only be magical, the result of a dark wizard or witch.

Rising to her shaky feet, Hesper stared out at the surroundings, peering into the shadowed landscape. She reached into her coat pocket and clutched her wand, drawing it out with a resolved slowness, unsure of what she was doing. The only thing to do was to call the murderer out, if they were still out there.

"I know you're out there," she called, steeling her voice. The wind swirled around her, the skirt of her dress twirling around her thin, pale legs. Leaves whipped by, riding the breeze— a tornado of red and orange and yellow swirling so quickly it looked like fire. The leaves whispered against each other, whispered to _her_. "Show yourself!" Hesper shouted, her voice echoing in the empty countryside. She sounded weak to her own ears, and gripped her wand tighter, her nails carving into the flesh of her palm.

"_Lumos!"_ she cried, and her wand flared, the tip ignited with a soft glow.

Lightning split the sky, white-blue fingers of flame clawing at the earth and air, creating a current of electricity that raced over the land, crackling with an unseen power. The thunder was like a drum, rolling down towards her, reverberating in her ears, filling her mind. Wind tore her hat from her head and her hair whirled around her face, whipping her reddened cheeks. There was another flash of lightning and then she was caught up in a particularly—_impossibly_—powerful gust of wind. She spun like a top, rising into the air so that she could look down and see the four horses rearing and kicking with their legs. All too soon they looked like toys, and she realized she was among the clouds, still spinning even as electricity crackled in the roiling grey clouds about her. Again, thunder rumbled in her ears and it seemed that the world was erupting, leaving only herself and the surrounding ring of clouds. As the sky blurred before her eyes in a whirl of greys, she saw in a brief flash of lightning a shape in the sea of churning gloom—a skull. For an instant she stared and then a black form flew through the air in a tight spiral, headed straight for her. Mouth open in a scream that was swallowed by the deafening storm, she watched the figure approach.

Hovering before her, the cloaked silhouette appeared as a mere wraith, skeletal and draped in black robes. The head was hooded, but dark eyes peered out at her, alight with some inner flame that seemed to burn Hesper's own eyes as they meet her gaze. The fur at the neck of her coat tickled her throat and she looked down, realizing that the bottom of the jacket was rising, the tie at her waist was untying, and the coat itself was slipping off of her shoulders, the sleeves gliding down her arms and over her hands.

This man (for it _was_ a man, she knew, though only his eyes were visible) _wanted her coat_. He was watching the fur embellished wrap move away from her body of its own accord with eager eyes, even reaching out with a dragon hide gloved hand.

Coming to her senses, Hesper forced her hands to move and to tug the sleeves back into place and once more tie the belt fast about her waist. Then, lifting her eyes to meet the cloaked stranger's, she grasped her wand, fingering it within her pocket. He was angry now, she sensed, and therefore even more dangerous. She had to be swift, and take him unawares.

"_Stupefy_!" she shouted, wrenching out her wand and aiming it at him. It was a difficult thing to do while suspended in the air, but the spell shot towards the man nonetheless, a mark of her skill with magic. Whether it was from his swift reflexes or the possibility that her aim had been off, Hesper didn't know, but the man managed to avoid the blast of light, spinning in the air and disappearing with a quiet snarl. One second he was there, and the next he wasn't. Like a ghost.

Scanning the skies, she came to the realization that she had stopped spinning and was instead hanging as if suspended from an invisible hook. She closed her eyes, feeling haggard and unsteady. What was she to do in her current position? she wondered, eyelids fluttering, struggling to open once more. Would she fall or fly? Perhaps she would just remain there—swaying and bobbing on the wind, riding the currents of air like a bird, unable to return to solid ground. The thought filled her with terror and she glanced at the carriage below with a gaze that had begun to turn blurry, glazing over with unshed tears. The instant she looked down, however, the invisible hook holding her up seemed to fail, for without any warning she jerked and then plummeted through the sky, falling through a veil of grey fog. Again, she squeezed her eyes shut in fear and screamed, certain that she was plunging to her death. Where was her broom when she needed it? She was a witch, gifted with magic! Her mind grasped for spells, _anything_ that would keep her from crashing headlong into the ground. She came up empty.

Attempting to curl herself into a protective ball, Hesper slipped her hand into her coat pocket. If she was going to die, she wanted to know that she had her wand with her when it happened. She was twenty yards from the ground, now ten. Her heart was racing, her hands sweating. This was her last moment of life, perhaps her last breath, or her final heartbeat. What had she accomplished in life? Nothing, nothing at all. She had only ever _lived_. And now, now she would die, pass from life and go on into the—

Her coat flared around her without warning, flapping and entangling with her legs even as if inflated. Five yards remained, three, two—

She slammed into the ground. the coat impossibly softening her landing, inflated like a balloon. Then the world dimmed, as if a curtain was being drawn over her eyes, and everything grew dark.

Death was _peaceful_. The comforting smell of rain was filling her senses and her nose was being tickled by something soft, something that smelled like her mother's rose-scented perfume. Hesper sighed, the small flurry of breath causing the rose perfumed something to quiver and tickle her nose again. Stretching her fingers and straightening her legs, she rolled over onto her back, wincing when something prodded into her spine. Pain in the afterlife? The ground shuddered near her head and she heard a slight squeak before her shoulder was being touched with cool fingers.

"_Hesper?"_

She knew that voice, she knew it…

Her mind succumbed to a tranquil moment of blissful peace, drifting into a dream once more. She was at Beauxbatons; she was flying on her beloved Silver Arrow, hovering just above the dew covered ground so that her toes were dragging in the lush grass below… Someone was grasping her arm and attempting to pull her off of her broom, up, up… But she didn't want to get up, she wanted to keep flying, to just drift along without a care in the beautiful, lovely world.

"_Hesper!"_

It was familiar, that voice, yet she couldn't quite place it. Her thoughts were slow, unable to wrap themselves around anything. _Sleep. If only she could sleep forever. _Her head turned to the side. _But she _could_. She was _dead_, after all. _

_Wasn't she?_

Her nose was being tickled and she fought the urge to sneeze. It was impossible though, and her eyes snapped open as she did so, looking up into the worried, tear filled eyes of her mother. Traveling from her mother's face to the hat on her mother's head and on to the feathers that decorated the fine specimen of millinery, Hesper's eyes widened. _Her mother couldn't be dead, too, could she?_

"M-Mum?"

The feather before her face was trembling with a frightening intensity, as were the hands that reached up to stroke her face. As was her mother's _entire body_, she realized.

"Oh God," the familiar voice was whispering. "You scared us, Hesper. You scared us so much. I thought you were—" Her voice choked, and the gloved fingers tightened on Hesper's face. "I thought you were _dead_, darling."

Just managing to lift herself into a sitting position, Hesper stared at the broken rocks and green hills that were shrouded with low hanging clouds. England. Good old England. _Not the afterlife, or wherever one went when they died._ The coat had deflated, and she found herself wondering whether it had been her imagination—the balloon like form that the jacket had taken on as she fell. She shook her head. Coats didn't inflate. They simply _couldn't. _Her father was running towards her now, his black coat flapping behind him, clutching his hat to his balding head, and so she left her confused thoughts alone. Then she was being cradled in his arms and kissed on the forehead while he settled her into the carriage seat across from her still trembling mother. Covering Tristan's body with a spare coat taken from his luggage and then taking the dead driver's place, her father settled himself atop the carriage, his weight rocking the coach as he shifted and grasped the reins. Hesper faced the window again, her nose pressed up against the glass, eager to start moving and get away from the place. Before the team of horses could move so much as a yard down the path, however, there was a sudden sharp tapping on the window, evoking a startled gasp of surprise from her mother. Finding herself face to face with an owl, Hesper opened the door to let it flutter in and drop a letter onto her lap and then turn about and leave just as quickly as it had arrived.

Tearing the heavy envelope open and pulling out a folded piece of parchment, Hesper read the letter's thin writing with eager eyes. Her letter from Hogwarts had arrived, seeing as she was no longer living in France but was now back in England for the first time since her seventh birthday. The famed school of magic had already enrolled her as one of its seventh year students, she read with excitement, and term would begin the first of September after taking the Hogwarts Express. Well pleased, she leaned her back into the comfortable leather seat behind her just as the wheels of the carriage began to move sluggishly through the heavy mud.

Everything was fine, she reassured herself. She would be attending Hogwarts _and _she was back in her beloved England after eleven years of living in France.

Everything was fine, apart from the fact that she should have been dead.


	2. Chapter 2

First of all, sorry for the incredibly long wait. I've been quite busy with school and track and more school, plus some additional writing and photography on the side, as well as being an active member over at other sites. ^_^ I wish I could just jump into one of these stories and escape from real life for a few hours (or years). :P

Secondly, I've decided to take this story down a route that will possibly connect its plot to real history (about the time period of World War II), and I really, really hope that I'm getting my facts correct. If not, I'm sorry, as the internet and Wikipedia can only get me so far. :D I'm also attempting to keep away from the kind of story that's centered around a romantic plot line, as I want to write something that reconnects with what we love so much about Harry Potter-- the adventure, excitement, and mystery. Will I succeed? Who knows.

And finally, I hope you enjoy this second chapter! (Sorry for the long author's note, too.) :P

*

The carriage rolled to a stop before the once-stately manor. It was still standing and even looked just as it had eleven years ago, but had been overrun by nature in the length of time they had been gone. Beneath the wheels, the road was not as smooth as it had once been, and Hesper was jostled in her seat as the carriage lurched to the side. Feeling the horses come to a complete halt, she threw open her door and stepped out, raising her eyes to her old home.

Dark ivy had crept over the building's weathered exterior, anchoring its roots in the mortar between the grey stones. Her gaze swept over the diamond-paned windows, several of which were missing pieces of glass. Behind her there was a sad, drawn out sigh.

"It needs work," her mother was saying, to no one in particular.

Hesper turned her attention back to the house, which was falling under shadow as the sun slunk lower beneath the trees on the far horizon. Grasping her trunk, she swung it to the ground and dragged it behind her, wheels squeaking like sugar mice. The thought made her stop just before the peeling front door. No magic. As wonderful as it was to be back in her childhood home, she knew she would miss using her wand. France's Ministry of Magic was not so strict on its withes and wizards as Britain's Ministry, for there were far less of their kind in France.

It was just a few weeks or so, she reassured herself. Hardly anything to complain about. Forcing herself to forget about the wand tucked up her sleeve, she pushed open the door before her and stumbled through the dark hallways, using the walls and her memories of the place to help guide her towards the stairs situated near the back of the first floor.

She passed oil lamps on her way, none of which worked. The sight of them was a sad reminder of how much time had passed since their move to France. The dilapidated building was not the only thing that had changed, though; Muggles had made great advancements as well. Oil fueled lamps had long since been pushed aside for the latest invention—electricity. "Just like magic!" claimed the rotund businessmen who provided the public with the new form of energy. The house in France had been wired for electricity, and she wondered when the same process would happen here. How long would it be before she was once again whispering "Lumos" with a giggle as she flipped a switch and "Nox" as she extinguished a glowing light bulb?

Smiling, she moved on into the neglected dining room, maneuvering her trunk with care around the preserved scene. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and it caught what few rays of light had found their way into the space, scattering dim beams of refracted luminance to melt away some of the shadows that clung to the papered walls. Covered in dust, the long mahogany table still gleamed here and there, winking at the cobwebs stretched across the ceiling. Plates were still set, flanked by goblets and silverware that yet remained in precisely the same position they had held for eleven years. A wineglass lay on its side at the head of the table, knocked over in the rush to get away from the house, the flurry of frightened movement made in an attempt to escape. The red liquid that had once filled the cup had long since soaked into the white napkin that lay crumpled alongside a rusted knife. Once clean, the linen was now stained red, as if with dried blood.

Hanging her head with the sudden influx of memories, Hesper lifted her trunk over a fallen chair. The wine stain may as well have been blood, she thought, given the way they had been forced to flee. She stepped once more into shadow, trailing her idle hand along the grime that coated a brass framed mirror. She had few memories of the night that had pushed her family from their home; fragmented flashes and images were the sole recollections that remained with her, and even those were hard to make sense of, confused as they were. Her six year old self had not wanted to remember the incident, it appeared.

The few things she could remember flashed before her eyes: her family of three eating dinner together for the first time in days, as her father had been absent of late, kept in his office in the west wing for hours; her mother shared a look with her husband as he joined them, a quick glance that even she, a child of six, could tell was full of fear; a woman screaming from the second story, thundering down the stairs and shouting something, a few brief sentences that now slipped Hesper's mind; the crash of a chair as it tipped backwards; being slung over her father's shoulders and run to a waiting carriage, her mother already seated with luggage thrown in a chaotic heap beneath her feet.

Hesper blinked, overcome by the surge of memories. In the recesses of her mind, a final glimpse of her family's flight from their home played out, putting forth the image of their loyal housekeeper, Anne, refusing to leave the house. Hesper had pressed her nose to the carriage window as the horses galloped out of the circle drive, watching as a man in black robes materialized on the doorstep, kicking it inwards. There had been a flash of Anne and her red hair, running forth to meet the man, and then the horses had turned a sharp corner, sending young Hesper to the floor between her mother's trembling legs. When she next looked through the window, home was far behind and out of sight, and they were well on their way to France.

Eyes still hooded, Hesper stumbled into the bottom step of the stairs. Tears, hot on her skin, fell from her eyes as she ascended the staircase. What had happened to Anne? she wondered. What had become of the woman who had bought them time to escape? She reached the second story landing, where the fiery-haired woman had screamed, alerting the family dining below of danger. What had she seen? Perhaps the black-robed man slinking across the yard. They would never know, but the figure in Hesper's mind seemed familiar, and she trudged thoughtfully to her former room, sending up clouds of dust as she crossed a threadbare antique rug to the bedroom door.

The hinges creaked as the door opened inwards, and she dropped her trunk the moment she had crossed the threshold. She did not want to linger here in the space she knew so well, not when there was exploring to be done. With a decisive, apologetic nod to the room, she backed out onto the landing again, creeping down the stairs. A glance through the windows showed her her parents had not yet entered the house. Her father was settling the dead body of Tristan on a moss covered stone bench in the front garden, gazing down at the seemingly asleep driver with a mournful look on his face. Her mother was still standing by the horses, stroking their velvet muzzles with a gloved hand as she gazed around herself, a mix of emotions showing in the set of her features.

She drew in a sharp breath of excitement, calculating how many minutes she had to explore. Once again stumbling through the gloom, she made her way to the west wing of the manor, her footsteps echoing loudly in the hallways. Since their departure to France, Hesper had always wondered what had caused their removal from England. As she grew older, she had reviewed the memories, searching for clues. When she asked her father about it, he had given a brief answer—his work. Two days ago she had learned they were returning to their previous home. Why? she had wondered. What was the reason behind this second unplanned move?

While casting a charm to protect the carriage and horses that would carry them back home from Muggles, her father's answer had come back to her. Work. She didn't know what he did to proved for her and her mother; he had always dealt with his business in secret. The idea to charm the carriage had been his, and she had complied, knowing he wanted to protect them from the World War the Muggle world had engaged in once again. But why, she had asked herself, had he wanted to go to such great lengths to disguise their passing from France? She had come to her conclusion during their crossing of the English Channel on a boat her father had secured for their journey. Again, she had magically enhanced it at his bidding, performing her last bit of magic before leaving the boundaries of France. Her father, she had decided, did some kind of secret work for the war effort. Next she had recalled his extended absences from England. He had been locked up for hours in his office (where no one was allowed entry, not even the housekeeper) in the weeks leading up to the appearance of the man in black robes.

Yes, Hesper thought, nodding her head confidently. It all added up. She needed to search the secrets of the forbidden office is she wanted to discover more about her past.

The great wood doors that had once guarded the secret of her father's work were destroyed, blasted apart and lying in jagged shards on the floor. Stepping forward hesitantly, Hesper held her breath, afraid to break the heavy silence hanging in the air. Dim patches of colored light shivered on the wood planks beneath her feet, falling from archaic stained glass windows that trembled as she crossed the floor. The setting sun glared through the glass and she paused in a pool of crimson, observing the effect on her arms, which were saturated with red as if painted. The study was suddenly cast into shadow, the sun having been covered by a cloud. Hesper released the breath she had been holding, drawing in a second great gasp of air. As soon as the light returned, she hurried through the study, acutely aware that she had little time to conduct her search.

All of the cabinets that once lined the northern wall had been blasted apart. She scrambled among the debris for a few short moments before realizing there was nothing to be found; anything that had once been stored there was now destroyed beyond recognition. She moved to the desk next, placing herself in the large, wing-backed chair before the table that dominated the center of the study. Again, she found nothing. The desk's many drawers had already been pulled out and ransacked.

What had her father been hiding here? What could possibly have caused such a reaction and search?

Her eyes fell on the desk surface, which was awash with red light. Hesper's inventive mind transformed the sight, turning the bright light into something else, something with a more gruesome effect. Here was a place bathed in blood and fire, blazed through by a trail of destruction. The objects on the desktop caught her interest, then. There was something about the way everything had fallen—the tall, twin candlesticks; the shattered remains of a teacup; the body of a golden carriage clock glimmering with a faint light… Everything had been scattered in the same direction and fallen to the left, as if swept aside with a hand in desperate haste. Her gaze followed the path of wreckage, dropping to the floor (splattered with tea and ink) and continuing on towards an ancient, soot smudged fireplace. She rose to her feet and then crouched before the hearth, staring at the embers of a fire that had long since died out.

There was an iron fire poker on its side a few feet away, and she reached for it, noticing an extensive scar on the wood floor that ran parallel to the tool, leading her to believe that the poker (like the items on the desk) had been thrown aside after a hurried use. Curious, she shifted scorched logs and cinders that crumbled at the slightest prod of the stick.

The sound of the front door opening and closing made her drop the stick in shock, and she began to use her hands to sift through the charred wood. A scrap of yellowed parchment caught her eye and she pulled it out from beneath a heap of ashes, excited. Frantically searching, she found another shred, and then a third, both singed around the edges and curled from intense heat. When it proved her search would yield no further profits apart from a few other tatters burned beyond legibility, she pocketed the three intact fragments in her dress and hurried from the study, running along hallways and then leaping up the stairs to race to her bedroom.

Throwing herself onto the bed, she pulled out the parchment pieces and rolled over onto her stomach, attempting to piece them together on the frayed, worn pillow. Even when she had matched up the edges of the slips of paper as best she could, the ink was so faint it was almost impossible to read, even more so in the failing light of the oncoming dusk. In the end, she realized she was holding a telegraph, and was able to read a few words and names, among them "J Robert Oppenheimer", "Lieutenant Leslie Groves", "America", and "World War".

A creaking floorboard alerted her to someone coming up the stairs and she thrust the telegraph shreds deep into her dress pockets and feigned sleep, trying to slow her breathing to a deep, even pace. She became aware of someone looming over her prostrate form and hoped the act she was putting on seemed natural. Daring to crack her eyes open just a fraction, she peered up at the familiar sight of her father's solemn grey eyes gazing down at her. His mouth twitched as if he were in pain.

For the first time, Hesper asked herself whether she truly knew the man who had helped raise her. If he had managed to keep some sort of massive secret her entire life, surely it was possible that her father had withheld even more information throughout the years.

He cleared his throat and then reached out for her should with a worn hand. As she was shook gently, Hesper pretended she was waking from a deep slumber.

"Your mother and I are going into town to hire some help if we can find it. God knows we'll need it to make this home livable again." He glanced up at the ceiling as he spoke, taking in the numerous spiders that had taken up living in the drafty corners of the bedroom. Patting her hand, he smiled at her with fondness as she nodded and then he was gone, backing out onto the landing with a final glance at her outstretched form.

As soon as she heard his heavy footsteps fade away into the silence of the old house, Hesper hurried to the window, settling herself on the wide sill. She drew out the pieces of the telegraph and matched up the edges once more. Though she stared at the inked markings, she could make nothing out save for the same words which she had earlier discerned.

Below the window, the carriage was pulling away towards town, her parents within its hold as they set out on their search for assistance. Her thoughts immediately drifted to Anne, the former housekeeper. With a sigh, Hesper leaned her back against the window casing. The sun at last slipped behind a stand of trees on the distant horizon and she was plunged into darkness.

A solitary figure in the creaking house, Hesper fingered her wand as the scenes of her childhood once again whirled through her mind. Tempted though she was to illuminate the surrounding area with a flick of her wand, she realized magic would not solve her dilemma; there was no spell to simply clear away the shadows and cobwebs of a befuddled mind.

There would be no easy way out of this, she knew. She would have to solve this mystery the hard way. With logic.

*

Thank you for taking the time to read! :)


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